


The Scout and the Scholar

by Ceranna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adorkable, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jaws of Hakkon, Main characters as side characters, Varric is the Fairy Godmother, its a love story really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceranna/pseuds/Ceranna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place towards the end of Inquisition (and beginning of Jaws of Hakkon DLC), this is a story of two very different people who meet and fall in love with the worst timing possible.</p>
<p>When Professor Bram Kenric gets his expedition to the Frostback Basin backed by the Inquisition, he imagines what this "Scout Harding" is like.  Of course, reality is drastically different and far more attractive than his imagination.</p>
<p>Lace Harding, Head Scout of the Inquisition, had expected a grey haired and robed scholar.  Needless to say, she is ill equipped to guard against the attractions of a certain Professor Kenric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Kenric Meets Harding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response from the Inquisition came shockingly fast.  Bram reads it over and over again, handling the simple roll of paper until it takes on a rather weary look, until he memorizes every single word.  It’s a rather short letter, Lady Montilyet’s words are elegant but precise with the offer of support for Bram’s proposed expedition.  In summation, the Inquisition forces will scout the Basin first and establish a base camp while Bram travels across Val Royeux to the Fereldan Frostbacks with his caravan of supplies and people.  It ends with a single sentence “ _Head Scout Harding will ensure that you receive any assistance required upon your arrival at the Basin Floor Camp.”_ and a graceful looping signature from the Ambassador.

In the madness that is organizing the expedition and his short leave from the University of Orlais, Bram often finds himself wondering what sort of person this “Head Scout Harding” is.  He imagines a gruff fellow, similar to the salt-of-the-earth mercenaries hired to protect his group when he was just a young field researcher for the Department of Antiquities in Starkhaven, excavating several pre-Chantry ruins in the Vimmarks.  It was from them that he learned to hold his liquor, the basics of swordplay, and several swear words involving Andraste and increasingly outrageous and improbable sex acts.  

When Bram finally manages to convince Professor Cheval Laurant to care for his rare Seheron Walking Fish, leaving the older scholar muttering about fishes (the fish in question is most certainly not a fish but an amphibian, which Laurant should know considering his field of study in Ancient Era Herpetology), Scout Harding has become a cantankerous white-haired veteran of the Blight.  

When Bram updates Colette with the news that the Inquisition has backed their expedition (it’s the first time he’s ever seen her anything less than calm and collected.  Collected Colette he called her.  Just once anyways.  Colette had given him A Look that quickly cut off his good natured chuckles), the mental characterization of Scout Harding morphs to that of a middle-aged woman.  Steely-eyed, blunt, but oddly charming and terrifyingly competent.  

Of course all of his imagined versions of Head Scout Harding fall woefully short when confronted with the real person.  His arrival at the Basin Floor Camp sets off a sea of activity and Bram is quickly swept up, hours go by on the intricacies of camp organization, before he even has a chance to think to ask after a certain Scout Harding.  More often than not Bram finds himself pulled in as a mediator between the pragmatic inquisition forces and the more esoteric scholars that came with him from the University.  He is in the middle of one of these negotiations (this time for bookshelves of all things) when a lilting voice interrupts the scouts response. 

“Ah, you must be Professor Kenric! I’m Scout Harding, pleased to meet you.” 

Bram looks down.  And then even more down.  His thoughts are busy cataloging the differences between his Scout Hardings and the reality (Young. Female. Dwarven. _Attractive_ ) that he barely notices her subtle dismissal of the scout that speaks of a confident and competent leader before turning her attention back to him.  She reaches out a hand in greeting (Fingerless gloves.  Scars across the knuckles), Bram is too lost in the disarray of his generally organized mind that the years of training from his noble parents on the matter of gentlemanly behavior take over.  “My lady.” He utters automatically while taking her hand in his and bending over it, brushing his mouth over her knuckles.  

It’s a matter of seconds. Bram whips back to his full height, mentally flagellating himself for being such an utter ninny, but then she giggles.  He finds himself unable to stop the self-deprecating grin from spreading across his face.  

“My lady.  Never been called that before. Scout Harding or just Harding is fine.” She says, still smiling.  She shakes her head and snorts “Lady Harding!” and Bram is so charmed by the noise that he makes a promise then and there to call her Lady Harding just to see if he can get her to make that sound again.  

Scout Harding gives him a tour of the camp, providing a detailed account of the defenses and supplies.  Kenric in turn tells her of his studies and the reason he requested Inquisition support.  They have an engaged and lively debate over what one would consider as the worst field rations; Harding wins handily but his story about stuffed sheep intestines of Starkhaven is a close second.  She leaves him at the door of his assigned cabin, but not before offering her and her scouts assistance in tracking down artifacts to help his research.  Bram, distracted by the enormity that is the unpacking and organization of years of his research into the small quarters of the wood cabin in front of him, asks belatedly “Buckles.  Any buckles you find, please send them my way.” before leaving Harding behind, mouthing buckles to herself in bemusement. 

Hours later though, Bram was having trouble keeping his mind off of the woman.  As he shelved the few books he managed to fit in his kit, he thought of her hair; more brown then red, coiled tightly up on her head which seemed a failing attempt to tame its waves.  He thought of her eyes, not the particular color (Green? Brown? He couldn’t quite remember) but the emotion.  The subtle spark of mischief usually overshadowed by calm competence and the passion that blazed as she spoke of the Inquisition.  As he organized his desk and the stacks of scrolls that comprised the entirety of his recent research, Bram found himself lingering on her face; lovely in its expressions, the long scar that graced her lower cheek, the curve of her mouth, and the freckles that dusted the surface. 

“Sweet Maker, man.  They're just freckles!” he mutters to himself.  He had been stacking and restacking the same five scrolls while his mind wandered into territory that he knew was unprofessional and even inappropriate.  He shouldn't be thinking about Scout Harding’s face much less her mouth in such detail. Or wonder what her hair would look like down or her lips taste like.  But he did think these things.  And he did wonder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Seheron Walking Fish is basically an axolotl, in case you had a burning curiosity.


	2. When Harding Meets Kenric

Lace checks her saddlebags one last time, secures the leather straps holding them to the pommel and cantle of the saddle of the stocky Hill pony Lace has nicknamed Apple.  She mentally catalogues the items; canteen of water, rations and map in the pommel bag, rain gear, scout kit freshly stocked with bandages and knife in the canteel bags.  It is more ritual then habit by now, a calming ordering of the mind before the storm.  Most of the Inquisition forces had similar idiosyncrasies, particularly the scouts whose vary nature depending on a large degree of uncertainty, private superstitious habits for creating artificial order in the vastly chaotic world.  Roland touches the wood of the gate as he leaves, a subtle brush with the tips of his fingers.  Urs keeps a small tattered copy of the Chant and brings it with her everywhere.  Ylana and Rutgar both sit at the bar, taking shot after shot, and show up for the morning muster blurry eyed and pasty faced. 

So Lace checks her equipment before every mission, saddle bags tightly secured and stuffed with the crucial scout kit, and her gear every time she leaves camp.  Bow at her back, quiver at her side, knives in belt, boot, and strapped to her forearm. Lace knows that it is rather ironic, she who had so despised rituals and traditions when growing up in the ass end of nowhere.  The thought of waking up every day, doing the same thing and seeing the same people, nearly suffocated Lace.  But now, after the Breach, after Haven, Lace takes comfort in the stability offered by such things. 

The Frostback Basin was a choice operation.  A little less than four days ride from Skyhold, and a relatively stable region with orders to escort and assist a small team of researchers from Orlais, Lace almost considers it a small vacation.  She takes a large group of new recruits and veterans as well as a few scouts that have been stretched too far for too long.  The mix will help train up the recruits, all eyes and nervous energy like new born colts, in a safer environment and under the watchful eye of the more experienced.  It seems rather odd to her, only a year ago she was one of them, fresh faced and new.  But Haven happened with little regard to experience and made veterans of the survivors.  The journey is swift and uneventful, and Lace uses the time to evaluate her fresh faced scouts.  She sends them on quick reconnaissance missions ahead of the group and puts them on rotations for the watch as they set up camp for the night.  It is stable routine work, but they handle it well.  Lace can’t stop the small glow of pride that grows as she watches them.  

It is common for the Inquisition forces to have members of all races, countries, and backgrounds.  While this diversity tended to lead to conflict, with Fereldan and Orlesians being the worst instigators, evening is generally time for relaxation and entertainment.  This particular group is perhaps the most diverse that Lace has had to work with, split evenly between those from Fereldan, Orlais, and the Free Marches.  Around the main fire, the smaller contingent of elves, both city and Dalish alike, mix freely with the humans. There’s even a few surface dwarves like herself that share dinner and talk.  For Lace, it is a demonstration of why the Inquisition is so important and vital.  It is tangible proof that the hope for peaceful existence for all is possible.  

She takes a place next to Grandin, a Circle mage from Fereldan.  He and Jace are already halfway into a tale about pranking the Commander.  Both of them are master storytellers and Jace, whose gift for mimicry is used eerily well to voice Cullen, has everyone in stitches.  Roland hands her a bowl of what has become known as “scout stew” (essentially throw whatever is available into a pot and let it simmer) and grins at the boisterous pair.  Roland is a Templar, come over from Kirkwall with the Commander way back in the beginning of the Inquisition.  He smiles easily now, but Lace remembers a time when he had nothing but aggressive suspicion for Grandin.  Remembers when Grandin glared and snapped at Roland like a cornered animal.  Then the destruction of Haven happened and changed everything.  

The survivors of it become oddly protective of each other, the trauma of that single night bonding them in nearly intangible ways.  It was perhaps the sole good thing that came of out it, Lace thinks.  Roland and Grandin weren’t friends and probably never would be. But Roland smiles freely now in Grandin’s presence and Grandin in turn speaks with nothing but respect for the man.  Lace even caught them swapping stories of Circle life once after they had had many cups of whiskey.  It’s a small change, but it’s enough.  

The descent from Frostbacks happens abruptly, and the weather heats up just enough to be pleasant for a change.  For Lace however it marks the end of her fledgling scouts field training and the beginning of their first mission.  She notes the ones that seem to make this conclusion as well in the hours it takes to descend completely into the basin itself.  They get quieter, more focused, and experience tells her these are the ones that will make it.  Once in the basin proper, Lace pairs them off into small groups with at least one veteran leading, and sends them out to hunt down good locations to set up the initial base camp.  She instructs them to only go two miles into the basin before circling back to the designated meeting spot.  Lace follows with Grandin and five other relatively young Inquisition members and heads east. 

Less than a mile in and Lace has to turn back, as they had run out of land and Lace gets her first view of the Frozen Sea.  She takes it in quickly, one breath in and one breath out.  This was one of the reasons she loves her work, the profound moment of seeing things she never expected to see in her life back home.  One last glance, getting the detail down for her next letter to her parents, and she heads back.  

While Lace and Grandin had been unsuccessful, two groups lead by Roland and Jace had found a potential zone a mile north.  Gathering the whole troop, Lace leads them onwards, her mind still on the Frozen Sea.  Roland and Jace’s suggested camp site is well protected by nature, a depression in the rolling hills surrounded by high thick forest with excellent potential for natural camouflage, and she sets her new scouts on the work of setting up a fortified camp.  She shares a grin with Grandin, as they both know that the still starry eyed scouts were about to find themselves in the thick of the grueling and often inglorious duties of erecting field fortifications.  She breaks them up into an organized crews; one digging shallow trenches for defensive obstacles, another to start cutting and shaping timber for walls, and finally a crew to set up their temporary housing for both the Inquisition forces and the researchers from Orlais.  

The end of the first night had everyone stumbling for their blankets, barely able to make it through their dinner.  Lace and ten of her more senior officers stay up for the first watch, a companionable and familiar quiet settling around them.  Urs breaks out her lute, and plays a new tune that she learned from Maryden at the Herald’s Rest softly by the fire.  Lace laughs to herself once she realizes that it’s “Sera was Never” only slowed down considerably and chuckles even more when she hears Roland’s lovely baritone humming along.  As she slips into her bedroll at the end of their watch, the tune lingers in her head and stays there until she slips into the blank void that is sleep for dwarves like her. 

The researchers arrive four days later, about two days after they finish the main defenses of their camp.  Lace is out surveying the nearby territory for another report to the Spymaster of Skyhold.  As she returns, she sees the normally ordered camp in disarray with more people, pack animals, and wagons.  She nabs one of scouts to see if they could direct her to the designated lead of the endeavor, a Professor Kenric, if she remembers correctly from her briefing.  The scout points her towards the center of the camp, and tells her to look for “the one with the rather odd hat”.  

Sure enough, Lace finds Professor Kenric easily enough from the rather vague description. But what she finds is rather unexpected.  From her briefing Lace had pictured a stereotypically white haired scholar in robes which, not counting the definitely odd choice in head gear, Professor Kenric is most decidedly not.  It is enough of a shock that Lace holds back for a bit, observing his rather engaged conversation with an increasingly amused Urs.  She notes that he is average in both height and looks, but what can be seen of his face.  He wears armor comfortably and he looks to be in decent shape, which tells Lace that he might not be such a burden in the field.  She finally approaches, dismissing Urs and turning to greet the man politely, holding her hand out.  

When he stares at her, Lace stifles the urge to roll her eyes at the man.  People seem to never expect a dwarf she thinks but is completely caught by surprise when instead of shaking her hand he bends over it and brushes his mouth over her knuckles and says “My lady” with a faint Starkhaven accent.  Lace catalogues it all in the precious few seconds it takes.  His hands are callused and warm, his lips soft where they meet her skin.  The heat of it seems to travel straight from her hand to the pit of her stomach and even lower, an unexpected and entirely unwelcome reaction.  

He drops her hand and snaps back to his full height.  A noble born then Lace realizes, for his actions were entirely too automatic and smooth to be anything but someone born into manners and wealth.  

“Right, ah” the Professor says intelligently, a slight flush spreading across his face.  He is so charmingly disconcerted that Lace finds herself grinning at him and he smiles back.  Slightly crooked, his grin transforms his face into something surpassing simple attractiveness and Lace realizes that she made a critical error in thinking that he was just average.  She’s not prepared for the second bolt of heat and flustered, she makes a joke about calling her “Lady Harding” and his grin widens further. 

In an effort to steer them back to more appropriate territory, and give her apparently rampaging hormones a rest, Lace gives him a tour of the now well fortified camp.  He asks intelligent questions about the work and the Inquisition itself and the afternoon passes quickly with easy and engaged conversation.  It stays professional, even during their exchange of past field experiences, but there is an undercurrent there that Lace cannot deny.  It is enough that Lace cuts the tour short and leaves him at his assigned cabin, belated asking if there was anything she could assist with.  He asked for buckles of all things, but Lace is sure she could get more information from his assistant. 

Lace spends the rest of the day burying herself in catching up on her reports to Skyhold as a distraction from the warm feelings the man had created in her.  It would not do, she knows this, and Lace is well educated in the folly of attachment.  When she joined the fledgling Inquisition, she had a few light-hearted flings.  All of them had died in the explosion at the Sacred Temple or later in the mountains as they fought through the demons that had poured out of the broken sky.  It had been hard as most of them had been friends first and lovers second.  Nothing compared to the night Haven was destroyed.  

Lace had been lucky, she hadn’t lost anyone close to her, but she watched the survivors who had.  Merina, an Avvar huntress, lost her husband and two small children to the blades of the Red Templars.  An already stoic woman she withdrew further into herself, a brittle quiet that never seemed to quite go away.  Still Merina wanted to keep aiding the Inquisition, and Lace watched as she volunteered for increasingly dangerous missions.  She died in red dirt of the Western Approach months later.  Over drinks, the surviving members of Merina’s team told Lace it was the first time they had ever seen the woman smile.  

So Lace learned well from Haven and its survivors.  As soon as she could she packed her parents as far away from Skyhold and the Inquisition, all the way to Denerim, the distance only broken by letters.  And any attempts at flirtation or more intimate moments was politely discouraged by Lace.  It was better this way, for all involved.  Hours later in the privacy of her tent, Lace runs her fingers over the knuckles he had kissed, and flushes at the memory of his mouth.  This would not do, Lace tells her self ruthlessly, but his mouth won’t leave her mind and she is filled with something terrifyingly and dangerously similar to yearning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harding is a bit more full of angst than Kenric...


	3. Kenric Finds a Map

Bram stays up nearly most of the night, organizing and unpacking the contents of his life’s work into the small cabin.  He makes a mental list of things that he has already spotted that he needs; more bookshelves, more reference books, more ink, more paper.  It continues to grow as he lies down on the stiff bed to sleep but his last thoughts before he drifts off into the void of sleep is of Harding. 

The following morning Bram wanders out of the cabin and stands, squinting owlishly at the bright daylight.  He had slept later than he had intended he realizes, the camp already quietly buzzing with efficient activity, though he could see that it was mainly the Inquisitions forces.  Perhaps not as late as he feared.  Yesterday his impression of the Inquisitions established camp was obviously colored by the chaos of the day, for he had originally thought it rather sparse and disordered encampment.  But he sees now that it was by design. To the casual eye it could almost be assumed an abandoned settlement by the clever use of natural camouflage like trees and depressions.  Shelters and watch posts were partially dug in in order to provide effective protection against any conventional weapons such as archers.  It was nearly textbook in its construction, with a high degree of ingenuity in the use of available materials.  Bram wonders idly if someone in the Inquisition was a student of the eminent military manual “On Field Fortifications” published by the Orlesians for their Chevaliers.  Perhaps someone like the lovely Lady Harding…Bram cuts himself off from that line of thought.  

Bram’s researchers are now housed in tents placed near his own raised cabin, most of which are still tightly closed against the morning light.  He is willing to bet though that Colette, his highly skilled and very high strung assistant, had been up for hours already.  Past the entrance to their small hallow that housed them, Bram sees are large fire pit and people gathering to have what smells like breakfast. And breakfast included coffee, as Bram picks up the faint aroma of the brew.  Bram brightens and lengthens his stride over to the fire.  Coffee was a stable for many of the students and professors at the University, and it did not take long for Bram to pick up the habit himself.   He was pleasantly surprised that they would have it here, far from civilization and the trade centers of Thedas.    

As he nears the fire he sees the familiar figure of Colette, speaking animatedly with a rough looking man in leathers.  He sees a couple other fellow scholars, clutching mugs of steaming precious liquid like a lifeline, in among the group.  He remembers suddenly that for most of them this is their first excursion into field work and struggles not to grin at their evident misery.  They’ll get used to it before they know it, he knows from experience.   Bram parks himself at the back of the meal line, blessedly short at this time in the morning, and waits for his turn.  

Both coffee and porridge is being doled out by one of the men Scout Harding had introduced him to the day before, although for the life of him he can’t recall the name of the handsome Free Marcher.  “ _Kace?  No..Pace?  Jace!”_ he remembers just as he reaches him.  

“A good morn to you Professor!” Jace greets him with a charming grin before asking “Coffee and a bite?” 

Bram nods his head eagerly and takes the mug and flat bottomed bowl as its handed to him.  

“Cheers!” he says to Jace and takes a sip of the coffee.  Its shockingly good for something made in a kettle over a fire and Bram is rather impressed that the Inquisition is willing (or just wealthy enough) to import luxury items like good coffee.  Jace must have seen his surprise and laughs good naturedly.

“Expecting swill were we?” Jace comments while serving the next in line.  Bram takes a place next to the man, setting the porridge to cool while he finishes the mug of coffee.  

“I must say I am rather surprised, pleasantly of course, but…” Bram trails off awkwardly, not wanting to end up with a foot in his mouth or making a fool of himself… _Again_.  He cringes internally at the memory of yesterday’s meeting with the curiously absent Scout Harding.  

“But you weren’t expecting it.  Aye well, orders from above, little tastes of home and bits of luxury items keeps us content.” Jace finishes for Bram while exchanging a rather sharp grin with a very blonde elf.  

“No coffee for the knuckle draggers in the Commanders Army though!  Only the best for us Scouts.  Privileges of doing all the dirty work.” added the elven man cheerfully before striding off with his breakfast.  Grandin his name; Bram remembers from the many introductions Harding made yesterday. 

“It’s true enough,” adds Jace “although it did take the Boss a lot of convincing to get the requisition through.  Apparently had to negotiate with both the Commander and Ambassador Montilyet.”  

Bram’s eyebrows rise in confusion. “The Boss?” he asks andJace nods his head in the direction of the outpost.  Bram glances over and his eyes catch on the auburn hair of Scout Harding.  “ _Ah, of course, Head Scout Harding”_  Bram thinks to himself.  Late in the night after his rather disastrous introduction he had managed to convince himself that his captivation with her was just a product of his rather fanciful imagination; that in the daylight he would see that while attractive, Harding wouldn’t match up to the figure he built up in his mind.  Now in the blunt light of day, Bram realizes with no small amount of dismay that he was obviously fooling himself.  Even from his relative distance away from the diminutive dwarf Bram feels a jolt of awareness that is nearly physical.  He distracts himself by engaging with Jace while he finishes of the remnants of his coffee and starts in on the porridge.  

Bram asks the fellow Marcher whereabouts he was from.  It isn’t particularly easy to tell the different city-states apart by accent, even for a Marcher with extensive travel across them like Bram, unless they hail from Starkhaven or Kirkwall.  And it was the worst of insults to assume the wrong one.  Jace as it turns out had a similar upbringing to Bram; a younger son of a lesser noble house in Wycome, Jace had left home with a taste for adventure and found the Inquisition instead.  

“A few of us Free Marchers joined up.  Not as many as there are Dog Lords or Masks course” Jace adds with a wink, much to the collective affectionate exasperation and eye rolls of his fellow scouts.    

They swap tales of the last Tourney they attended and Bram finds himself nearly snorting with laughter at Jace’s dramatic retelling when they were interrupted by the soft Orlesian accented voice of his assistant Colette.   

“Professor Kenric, there you are!”  the elven woman calls out and Bram looks over to see Scout Harding at her side, a distinct glazed look on her face that Bram has begun to associate with those that spend too long in conversation with Colette.  Her eyes snap to his (G _reen.  Maker, how could I forget those_ ), holding his gaze a few seconds too long.  Obviously she remembers yesterday’s meeting as well.  She finally says “Professor” with a professional nod in greeting to Bram, and he is oddly charmed to see that the tips of her ears are just slightly pinker than normal.  Perhaps he isn’t the only one feeling a pull of attraction and Bram is unable to help himself as he responds. 

“Colette. Lady Harding. Fair morning to you both.”  He returns to the two women and is rather pleased to see Harding’s ears turn a darker shade of pink.  Harding glares are him but he can see an amused glint in her eyes as the scouts in hearing distance snicker good-naturedly.  Colette of course kept doggedly at whatever subject she was discussing before with Harding, her single-mindedness both a blessing and a curse. 

“I was just telling Scout Harding that the camp would be an excellent example of section 5 ‘Artificial Land Obstacles’ in ‘On Field Fortifications’” Colette explains and if Bram were a betting man he’d say Colette had probably quoted parts of the section, if not all of it, to Harding on the way over to see him.  

“She reads a lot” Bram jokes to Harding who is smiling at the two of them and he can’t help but notice how it seems to be tilted slightly, opposite of her scar.  

“But Professor, _you_ were the one who let me borrow it.” Colette says with a confused frown and Bram tries not to sigh outwardly.  Lovely assistant that she was, Colette's perhaps only flaw was an underdeveloped sense of humor.  

“Right, ah, I read a lot as well.” He says with a slight cough.  He glances over to Harding, and makes the startling discovery that she has the rather disconcerting ability to laugh with her eyes.  It’s a particular glint, and a quirk of her eyebrow but it’s definitely laughter.  

“Colette also explained why you asked for buckles last night, but says I need you for something called an initial field survey?” Harding asks and Bram is startled to realize that he had rather forgotten what had been occupying the back (and forefront) of his mind these past weeks.  

“Brilliant!” he exclaims.  “Do you happen to have a recently updated map of the area with geographical markers?” 

“Indeed we do.  Follow me Professor.” She responds cheerily and Bram almost bolts ahead of her in his excitement before remembering that he was holding a dirty mug and bowl with little clue of what to do with them.  

A soft whistle from Jace behind him catches his attention and the man points behind him. “Drop em’ in the trough over there.  We’ll scrub them down by the end of the shift.”  

Bram thanks the man as he drops his dishes in the soapy water of the trough before returning to Harding.  He asks Colette to remain behind to help start a running list of items that they either forgot or didn’t know they needed for the research outpost, a high possibility of happening considering the amount of scholars new to field work, before following Harding to the communications and intelligence outpost. 

 “I’m assuming you are the one to talk to about getting us University folk involved in camp upkeep?” he asked as they walked.  For so short of a person, Harding set a quick pace and it matched nicely to his normal contemplative stride. 

“You assumed correctly.” She affirmed before shooting him a curious side-glance.  “Have to admit, I’m a bit surprised you are volunteering for that duty.” 

“We’ve quite a few researches that are on their first field assignment.  Fastest way to get them adjusted is to put them in the thick of things and tire them out so that they can’t think of anything but their bedrolls.” 

“Nothing like getting your hands dirty. Literally!” She chuckles and they share a knowing grin. 

“So, ‘On Field Fortifications’.  Fascinating read, that.” He remarks as they near the output.  

“Thrilling,” She responds dryly before continuing “but useful.  The Commander let me borrow his copy when I first started.  Growing up where I did, you couldn’t help but learn some woodsense, but it’s an entirely different animal when you are dealing with armies.   Or large groups of people.  Or anything besides a small dwarf girl, really. The success of having the scouts implement those methods had the Commander make it a requirement for any scout leader to understand the basics.” 

“They have to read the whole thing?” Bram asked, astounded.  The manual (tome really) was ridiculously thick and written in the old-style Orlesian, which was fussy at best and incomprehensible at worst.  

“Sorta?  To be completely honest, the majority of the manual wasn’t relevant or was just plain lacking.  No breaches or how to defend against demons falling out of holes in the sky for example.  So I created an abridged version and added parts in based on our successes.  Still working on but most of our forces leaders carry a copy now in case of emergencies.  And all new troops are required to read it.” She finishes right as they reach the outpost.  There is not a small amount of pride in her voice and Bram is suitably impressed. 

 “That’s…well that’s brilliant.” He says and knows its not enough of a compliment for her achievements.  “You should publish it!  Maybe even host a lecture series on the matter at the University.” 

“Maybe after this whole Breach business is done.” She responds with a laugh before ushering him to the back of the outpost.  There is three tables, set up in a half-circle behind the thick timber posts.  One is clearly for reports and communications, the middle is clear of most clutter, and the other is entirely covered by a large map.  

With a gesture and a small smile, Harding says “Your map Professor.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colette is 100% based off of Paris Geller from Gilmore Girls.


	4. Harding Finds Some Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I finally sat down and outlined this sucker, so I can actually add some proper tags. There's going to be action, some angst, some smut, and a whole lot of fluff. 
> 
> I also added artwork to Chapters One and this one, so take a glance if you'd like to see my attempt at illustrating the meeting between our two dorks and the glorious ginger mane of Kenric.
> 
> The glory of Bram Kenric:  
> 

Lace steps aside to allow Kenric more room at the table, before turning her attention to the map.  The original sheepskin map had been transcribed by Skyhold cartographers before Lace left, based on decade old surveys of the area.   Over the faded brown ink is fresh black ink marking geographical regions of interest, landmarks, materials, and potential forward camps from the scouts reconnaissance into the region.  In the few days that they had been in the Basin, most of the forces had been focused on building and fortifying the research outpost, but Lace’s people have managed to penetrate a decent ways north up the coast, fanning out west a ways. She turns her attention back to the Professor, rather amused at the picture he presents.

Kenric is a focused thinker but not a particularly quiet or contained one, Lace observes.  He mutters to himself, fingers never quite idle as they trace the coast or pause to rub at his brow.  They aren’t elegant or pale hands, something Lace has come to expect from academics, but rather square and calloused. Add it to the list of the contradictions that make up the professor, she thinks to herself just as the man in question mutters audibly “Mm no..Perhaps?  Andraste’s Dimples, what was that line?”  before shoving up his headgear with a small sound of exasperation.  

“So Professor, what are exactly are you looking for?” Lace asks and tries to stop from grinning at his small but visible jolt of surprise.  Apparently in his obvious concentration he had forgotten that she was next to him and he grins crookedly at her, a small flush across his cheeks.   He reaches up and pulls off the hefty headgear with an audible sigh of relief, revealing a thick curly thatch of ginger hair, and sets it aside before answering her. A redhead, of course she thinks ruefully to herself.  There was a saying in her village, something about redheads and trouble...Kenric’s response interrupts her irrelevant thoughts.  

“Most of my research indicates that Ameridan and his party followed some kind of body of water. My first instinct is the along the shore, keeping the water on one side as a defensive maneuver.  But the river is also a possibility…” he trails off and Lace’s curiosity gets the better of her.

“How exactly do you figure out actual locations of events from over 800 years ago?” she asks, and is completely caught unawares by how different (how attractive) he looks without the obnoxious hat and the same crooked smile.  

“Weell, it’s not easy.  It starts with a critical assessment of available texts and supplementary manuscripts from that period and subject matter. That can take years of collection and evaluation.  From that examination, one will build a body of evidence to get the field study approved at the University.  Or if you have private funding of course.”  he says with a wry chuckle.  

“Supplementary?  Like songs and poems?”  Lace asks, intrigued with the idea of the professor pouring over century old poetry and limericks.   

“Hmm, exactly! Empirical evidence of the past, such as historical archives, actual artifacts, and examination of historic sites is of course best, but you’d be surprised how much truth is carried through time in the form of literature and art.  The majority of the historical records on where and why Ameridan left is either lacking or conflicting.  However, much of the remaining poems and songs of the era and subject agree that he left for a battle and I was able to narrow the area down to the Frostback Basin. Of course now it's just a matter systematically locating the historical sites, excavating them, and now I’m lecturing you.” he sighs ruefully, running a hand through his hair.  “My apologies, Lady Harding.”  

She chuckles at his flustered apology, and waves it off.  “That’s nothing Professor.  You should hear the Commander go on about proper footwork.”  It's obvious that this particular subject is his passion, and he speaks with a confidence and enthusiasm of only the truly dedicated.  Lace understood that passion, as a firm and passionate believer in the work that the Inquisition was doing across Thedas and in the Lady Inquisitor herself.  “Guided and protected by Andraste Herself” was a common descriptor for the Inquisitor, but Lace had seen it.  Had seen the woman close the Breach, survive impossible odds at Haven, and walk out of a Rift at Adamant.  So Lace believed, truly albeit quietly, that the Inquisitor, although human, was marked by the Maker.

“Yes well…” Kenric continued with a slight cough before turning his attention back to the map.  “I’d say focus on this area here along the coast” he says, pointing to an area just north of the base camp.  “Have them keep an eye out for anything that looks old, whether it’s a shard of pottery, a knife, or a buckle.” His eyes glint with humor over the illusion to her earlier confusion over his odd request the night before.  Lace struggles a bit to contain the urge to roll her eyes, but obviously failed to maintain her professional composure as she watched his grin spread into something boarding smug.   

“Alright Professor,” she says with a grin, “I’ll have my people focus on the shore area, starting just south of here and working our way north.” Lace backs away from the table and turns, ready to escort him back to the research outpost.

“Excellent, thank you.  What time we will be leaving?” he asks and Lace pauses to glance at him. He was serious.  Oh.

“We are leaving tomorrow morning after warm ups.  You, Professor, will remain here.” she says as she strides (or as close to a stride that her shorter legs can get) away towards the main camp.  It’s a bit of a coward's move, she knows, but she’d hate to see their amiable if slightly flirtatious rapport spoiled because she hurt his pride. 

“If it's a question of experience, Lady Harding, I can assure you that I was a field researcher for several years in the Free Marches before my position at the University of Orlais.  I can protect myself well enough.” he protests, easily catching up to her with his much longer legs, “And please, call me Bram.”

She slows her pace to meet his gaze and recognizes the same mulish cast to his features that graces her own when she’s set her mind on something.  He isn’t going to let this go without a fight, she realizes with no small amount of dismay.

“I was charged with keeping you and your group safe, and to be blunt while I’m sure you faced some danger in the field, I have no idea your training or abilities.  I don’t know you.  I can’t add another unknown for my people to watch out for. They have enough on their plate as it is.” she finishes, but continues before he has a chance to say anything in response, “But I can see that you won’t be backing down from this, so here is my proposition.  At first light tomorrow, you join us in our morning training.  You keep up, then we will see about your joining us in the field. Deal?”  

She extends her hand for a shake, pleased to see that his expression has lightened at her offer.  

“Lady Harding, you are as magnanimous as you are fair.” Professor Kenric says while a half-smile as he takes her hand and bends over it.  It’s almost the exact same position as the first time they met, the awkward greeting from the day before, and yet entirely different.  He doesn’t press his mouth to her knuckles, but stops just above, so close it’s impossible not to imagine his breath hot on the skin below his lips.  He doesn’t keep his eyes closed, instead locks his gaze to hers, and there is no denying the question in them or the heat. It’s as if his face is somehow closer to hers as the morning light highlights his ruddy features, his hair igniting and brown eyes burning like embers.  Lace is suddenly aware that they had been staring at each other for longer than can be explained.  She should step back, let go, but she can’t stop her fingers tightening around his.  Or stop her mouth from parting, just slightly, as he grazes the underside of her wrist with his thumb.  He seems even closer now or she’s leaned in, which a small voice in her head is telling her is a bad thing, but suddenly it only feels like inches to his mouth and she wants nothing more than to taste-

“Hé là Professor Kenric!” interrupts a strident Orlesian voice and Lace’s sees the diminutive form of Kenrics assistant Colette.  Lace pulls her hand back at almost the same time as the man bolts up from his bent position to face the newcomer.  

“There you are!  We are organizing the references and the rest of our gear and need you to supervise-” Colette continues, remarkably unaware of the undercurrents between Lace and Kenric.  At that moment Lace wishes she herself as ignorant, simultaneously thankful and frustrated by the interruption.  She hopes that her face isn’t as red as it feels, and casts a rather uncharitable look at Kenric who appears unmoved, arms behind his back and listening attentively to his assistant.

“Thank you, Colette, I shall be right there.” Kenric says, neatly cutting into the elven woman’s complaints about some scholar using the incorrect method of organizing manuscripts, and turns to Lace.  

“Er right, I’ll be off then.  Thank you for your assitance Lady Harding.” and with that less than suave farewell he strides away with his assistant somehow keeping pace.  Lace is rather miffed at the lack of response to their interrupted moment until she spots his ears; the tips a bright cherry red.  She glances around to make sure there is no witnesses before shaking off the feeling on her hand, mentally cursing herself for allowing it to even happen.  “If you want trouble, find yourself a redhead” she suddenly recalls as the exact saying from home.  She glances back at the retreating form of the Professor,  “And that, my girl, is Trouble” she thinks to herself, before going back to her duties.

The rest of the day paces in a blur.  A raven arrives not soon after, containing authorization from the Nightingale to move forward with the establishment of more Inquisition bases in the Frostback Basin.  Lace spends the day at her desk, planning deployments and organizing shift duties, writing up requisitions to send back for supplies and discussing the state of the mission with her fellow veteran scouts.  Urs has to drag her away from the stack of reports she has ready for the ravens for dinner, a common enough occurrence that Urs has apparently taken it as another one of her official duties, feed Head Scout Harding. 

The large fire pit is crowded with people, most of whom are eating in companionable silence with books or letters from home in front of them.  Lace is surprised to see both Kenric and Colette as well as a few other scholars in the thick of things.  Kenric seems to be chatting companionably enough with Grandin, while Jace looks to be attempting a flirtation with the unimpressed Colette while Roland watches with faint amusement.  Lace grabs a bowl and joins the group with Urs at her side.  

“Glad you could make boss, the professor here was just telling us some of his war stories.” greeted Grandin, before taking a large bite of his meal with a grin at the now rather red Kenric.  

“Er, not really war stories.  Just small skirmishes in the field really. And please, its Bram” Kenric interjects, making eye contact with Lace before looking quickly away.  

“I don’t know...that strange creature that chased you and your party out of that elvhen ruin sounds pretty fucking epic to me.” replies Grandin wryly.

“Yeah, and fighting off that band of Tal Vashoth isn’t a small matter either!” adds Jace after a discrete nudge from Grandin.  Lace narrows her eyes at the pair briefly before returning her attention to Kenric.

“Tal Vashoth?” she asks and Kenric shifts as if uncomfortable with the attention.

“It was during my time in the Vimmarks. That area in particular is rife with Tal Vashoth.  We encountered them quite a few times.” he answers simply.  Lace is rather surprised at the short answer from the usually rather verbose man, but it only takes Jace and Grandin a few moments of cheerful cajoling before Kenric is relating a number of his experiences with the Tal Vashoth, both the successful and not so glorious.

“That move you mention...The one that got you out of that Tal Vashoth lock hold?  Could you show it to me during the drills tomorrow?”  Roland asks Kenric, a rare excited gleam in his eyes.

“Ah yes, the Riviani arm twist. Mercenary from Antiva taught me that on my second field work. Very useful for smaller combatants against larger foes.” Kenric pauses and eyes the hulking man.  “Although what use you’d get out it…”

“Probably that bet, ain’t that right Roland?” chimes Jace gleefully before leaning over to Kenric and explaining in sotto voce “Crazy bastard bet The Iron Bull that he could beat him at wrestling.” while Roland rolls his eyes.  At Kenric’s confused look, Grandin added “The Iron Bull is this massive Qunari back at Skyhold.” and Jace sagely nods.  Urs rolls her eyes at the pair's antics, keeping her peace as usual as she finishes the meal.  

“Hain’t nothing but swords and shields taught at the Chantry.  Figure I learn a new move, might surprise the horned bastard.” explains Roland rather bashfully. 

“You were a Templar?” Kenric asks confused, and Lace isn’t surprised.  Most people expect Templars in shining plate metal and skirts.  While massive, Roland is quiet and unassuming in worn leather.  

“Still am,” replies Roland proudly. “Just serve the Inquisition rather than the Chantry.”

Lace takes another bite of her meal, watching for the tension that usual builds when the subject of Templars and Chantry come up around Grandin (and any mage for that matter).  

“My older brother is-was a Templar.  He served at the Starkhaven Circle.” said Kenric, and catching their empathetic glances, adds quickly “He lives!  He was sent home after the fire, safe and sound...mostly.” he says softly, and Lace senses a world of deeply buried pain at his last words.  Quickly Lace changes the subject to a more popular and less painful one; Skyhold gossip. 

With Templars and the Chantry being the most recent topic, it is only natural and obvious for the conversation to turn to the life of their Inquisitor.  Or rather, the love life of their Inquisitor and Commander.  

“The Commander of the Inquisition and the Inquisitor herself?  Together?” Kenric sputters in surprise.

“It’s all true, though she a mage and he an ex-Templar.” confirms Lace with a grin at his obvious shock.

“Oh aye, that messenger..What’s his name-Jim?  He caught them kissing on the battlements, clear as day.” adds Grandin and few others pipe up to share their stories of catching the pair exchanging loving looks and touches.  

“It’s unnatural.” mutters Roland darkly and Grandin rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“It’s always ‘It’s unnatural’ with you Templar types!  Magic, it’s unnatural.  This place, it’s unnatural. That chair! It’s unnatural.  Love! It’s unnatural.” Grandin finishes with a dramatic flourish and Lace is relieved to see that Roland just shakes his head, a small amount of amusement in his eyes.

“Alright, I get your point.” Roland concedes with a growl and Grandin sniffs in response. Lace shares a small smile with Urs, before finishing her meal as the rest of the group move on from the love life of the Inquisitor to the more dramatic and vastly entertaining amorous pursuits of The Iron Bull.  

It was a common belief that the relationship between the Commander and the Inquisitor was nothing other than idle curiosity of two diametrically opposing forces or the natural development between two people of relatively equal status.  But Lace knew better.  She knew that it was nothing short of deep, abiding, and terrifying love.  She had seen the Commander's face when the Herald collapsed in his arms, half-frozen but alive, after Haven.  The Commander had lifted her up, sparing a quick glance at the unconscious woman before calling out for help.  Nearly everyone had been focused on the Herald, but Lace watched her Commanders face, and saw love in that brief moment that he allowed himself to look upon the Heralds face. And late that night when Lace curls up on her bedroll for sleep, she wonders wistfully what it would be like to be looked at like the Commander had.  What that kind of love felt like.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bram just really wants someone to call him by his first name.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, [@captainceranna](http://captainceranna.tumblr.com/)


	5. Kenric Tries Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished this beast of a chapter, thanks to insideofadoeg for dragging me through it, kicking and screaming.

 

When Bram rolls out of bed it is still dark, with no hint of the rising sun creeping over the hills and he recognizes that it is an hour or two earlier than he should be waking.   He ponders briefly rolling over and getting the extra sleep that he is sure he will need, but with the amount of nervous energy and excitement coursing through his body he knows its a lost cause and abandons his bed.  It has been too long since his last field excursion, and while his years at the University of Orlais have been perhaps the most intellectually stimulating there is nothing quite like being at the forefront of discovery.  Before going to bed the night before, Bram had told his fellow scholars of Scout Harding's requirements for those going into the field and have given them the option to join him in the morning. Based on their responses, he wouldn’t be surprised if the majority of them show up, as they were all driven by the same thirst for knowledge and taste for adventure that had driven him out of the Chantry-shaped shadow that tradition had cast over him.   

He pulls on a worn gambeson over his undershirt and loose trews before struggling into the knee-high boots that he hadn’t quite broken in yet.  Bram decides to leave his armor behind, figuring he’ll have time to put it all on before they head out, and pointedly keeps the garish Orlesian hat on his desk.  Provided he passes Scout Harding’s test of course, he thinks as he leaves his cabin with a fair amount of trepidation.  It wasn’t hubris when Bram defined himself as experienced with the sword.  Like most nobility, his privileged background afforded him and his siblings tutors from a very young age to ensure that he was proficient in various forms of martial arts.  And while he had only enough interest in it to keep him alive, unlike two of his brothers who took to it like breathing (Aidan’s gifts led him to the Templars while Roy joined the Starkhaven Guard), years in the field had given him the practical experience to hone his skills.  But it had been a number of years since he’d done anything more than occasionally spar, and while he had no doubt he’d be able to keep up with scouts, impressing her...them was unlikely.

Bram runs into Roland along the way, pulls him into a group jog around the camp before stretching and then sparring.  On the way the the sparring field, Roland pleasantly surprises Bram by asking if he could be his sparring partner for the day.  

At the wide flat field that served as the Inquisitions sparring grounds, Bram was greeted by Jace and Grandin, whom he was starting to realize travelled in a pack.  

“We were just discussing who we should pair up with you Professor.” called out Grandin. 

“And I said we could probably pit you against most anyone here.  Ten to one says that he was practically born with a sword in his hands, like all nobles.  Isn’t that right Professor?” Jace returned.  Before Bram could respond, Grandin cut in.

“See, now that’s just stereotyping.  Just because the two of you came from similar backgrounds, doesn’t mean he had the same experiences.  That’s like saying all elves are poor, or all Fereldans love dogs, or..or all Orlesians have bad skin!” the mage finishes passionately.  Bram almost wishes he could lie without giving it away but is forced to answer when Jace cocks a questioning eyebrow at him.  

“I wouldn’t say I was exactly born with a sword in my hands…” he responds and Jace grins widely at a put out Grandin. 

“See?  My point? Made.  It’s not stereotyping if it’s true.” Jace proclaims and continues over Grandin’s indignant squawk.  “It is a fact that nearly all elves are poor, just as most Fereldans love dogs.  And of course Orlesians have bad skin, with all that makeup and masks.” he finishes matter of factly as Grandin shakes his head in exasperation.

“One of the girls back home in the Hinterlands hated dogs.” chimed in Harding with a twinkle in her eye from her spot by the archery targets.  

“Is that right?  And where is she now?” Jace called back with a grin.

“Not in Ferelden!” Harding replied to the general amusement of all in hearing.  Bram studiously kept his gaze from landing on her for too long, focusing on the equally amused Grandin.  

“You made your point Jace, though I’m pretty sure you’re confusing stereotype with prejudice.” said the slender elven mage before turning to Bram.  “I suppose then you don’t need help getting the right partner then?”

“Ah no, thank you.  Roland has already offered actually.  And I believe that’s him over there waiting.  If you’ll excuse me?” Bram says with a smile to the both of them and turns to make his way over to where the tall Templar was waiting, missing the silent whistle by Jace and raised eyebrows of Grandin. 

Roland greets him with a friendly nod and a dull-edged longsword.  Bram grips the hilt loosely, switching between holding with one or both hands, testing his body's memory of stances and sword forms before squaring off against the Templar. 

Roland starts off the sparring session slowly, putting Bram through the his paces with the ease and control of an expert swordsman, but it doesn’t take long for the tempo to pick up drastically.  Bram is pleasantly surprised to find that he is able to keep up with the man.  While Roland is clearly the superior swordsman, Bram’s hodgepodge of techniques learned from all over Thedas give him just enough leverage to stay on his feet for longer than he had anticipated.  The bigger man finally manages to knock him down with a sweep of his legs after surprising Bram with a shoulder to his ribs.  Roland pulls Bram up easily, and pats him companionably on the shoulder with a broad hand.

“Good match, you’re quick on your feet.” the Templar says with an approving nod.  “Now about that move..the Rivaini one?”

Bram grins and gamely teaches the enthusiastic Roland the Riviani arm twist, along with several other methods of disarming and disabling larger opponents he had learned during his time in the Vimmarks. In return, Roland shares some practical improvements to Bram’s sword form, and the two men are both so focused on the companionable exchange that it takes several tries before either of them hear Harding.

“Ah, here for the judgement of the lad?” asks Roland cheerfully while Bram struggles not to shift nervously, wiping the sweat from the sparring match off his brow with his shirtsleeve.  Harding nods and locks eyes with Bram, her face for once oddly still.  She holds him with her gaze for a few moments before throwing her hands up in exasperation. 

“Alright, you win! Obviously you can handle yourself.  You and the other scholars that showed up today can join us in the field.  Now go grab some breakfast and meet us near the south entrance of camp, fully equipped and ready to go.” she says and Bram struggles to contain his glee.  

“My thanks, Lady Harding.” Bram says, and flashes her a cheeky grin.  She shakes her head as strides away, but not before he catches the glint of amusement in her bold eyes.  

“Interesting,” remarks Roland, gazing at the rapidly disappearing figure of the Head Scout, but continues before Bram can respond.  “But let’s get you fed and kitted up.” he finishes with a wide grin, the first Bram has seen from the man.  He follows the Templar to the fire pit, exchanging greetings with Colette and the few scholars that were heading out to the field with him before grabbing some breakfast (porridge again) and scarfing it down.  He spots Harding, seated on a log across from the fire, absentmindedly eating her own meal with reading what looks like an official letter.  Interesting, Roland had said, and she is at that. Harding manages to balance the fine line between efficient professionalism and warm camaraderie with her people, he can see that easily by observing her interactions. She exudes strength and competence, but Bram also senses a vulnerability that both intrigues and mystifies him. Combined with the attractive features and a muscular though compact physique, Bram finds himself pulled to Harding in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time.  

Bram quickly polishes off the rest of his porridge, hoping no one noticed his preoccupation with Harding, rather ashamed of his (if he is being honest) ogling of the woman.  He heads back to his cabin and quickly pulls on his armor, including the rather unfortunate Orlesian hat.  If Bram hadn’t seen several other of his colleagues wearing similar headgear, he’d think it a rather ingenious prank on the part of the University administration.  He stops at his desk, grabbing a reference book on pre-Chantry era weapons and paging through it in a spurt of nervous energy.  He practically memorized the majority of the Ameridan related subject matter, but brought it all anyways along with references guides for dating artifacts to era and country.  Quit dithering man he thinks to himself and strides out the door, but not before buckling his longsword to his belt.

The scouts had already gathered at the south of the outpost, nearly twenty in number including himself and five other of his colleagues from the University.  He notes that while Martine, Salvatore, and Allard are equipped similar to the rest of the group with bows and a quiver of arrows, Roger and Colette have longswords similar to his own.  He steps forward to join them when he catches the eye of Harding who waves him and the scholars emphatically over.  

“Ready to go Professor?” she asks cheerfully Bram before turning to address the larger group.  “I’ve prepped my people on the mission and I see all your people are already here. Once we are past the last watch we will split into groups of five, with Roland, Urs, Jace, Grandin, and myself leading. See anything, just holler at anyone of us.” At Brams nod, Harding calls out in a surprisingly strident voice “Let’s move people!” and they are off.

\------

It is a two hour march up the coast before anything happens.  The five groups were spread out within eyesight and easy hailing distance in order to increase their chances of finding anything in the dense ground vegetation of the Basin.  Harding also has a few scouts ahead and behind the group to keep an eye out for any “nasty surprises” as she told him.  The hours had passed by quickly, as Harding had paired him with Jace, whose amusing albeit quiet conversation kept Bram reasonably entertained while keeping an eye on the forest floor.

“So Professor,” Jace begins and continues after Bram interrupts yet again with a request to use his common name “That assistant of yours Colette..:” Jace begins while glancing casually towards the shore.  Bram tenses slightly at the mention of Colette, has had this nearly every variant of this conversation before (Yes, he’s quite sure she is entirely capable.  Yes, she is very blunt. No, he doesn’t have a “close” relationship with her) that he’s already opening his mouth to respond when Jace continues  “Is she seeing anyone?” and Bram can only stare open mouthed at the handsome Free Marcher.  

“Seeing?  You and...Colette?” he sputters, both of them turning to gaze at Colette ahead them.  Even from their relative distance it is obvious that she is in the midst of a pointed lecture to a barely tolerant Urs.  Jace chuckles, white teeth flashing against the dark of his skin.  

“What can I say, I like my women...headstrong.” he says with a small shrug and Bram can help but to snort.

“That’s a polite way of saying it.  But no, as far as I am aware, Colette isn’t seeing anyone.” Bram returns while scanning for any potential artifacts.  His eyes catch on the cinnamon glare of Harding’s tightly bound hair and has to ask “So...have uh you and Scout Harding?” Bram tries for nonchalant but knows he fails at the arch look Jace shoots him.  

“Not for lack of trying but no.” answers Jace.  They both pause the conversation to sweep the ground.  Bram finds some metal shards, too tarnished with age and dirt to properly date, and pockets them excitedly.  “Oh and Bram?  She’s not seeing anyone either.”

Before Bram can come up with a response that is both articulate and serene when a hailing shout from the front rings out.  Bram sees what looks like one of the forward scouts approach Harding, and jogs after Jace and the three archers that accompany him to her side.

“You sure? How many did you think you saw?” Harding is saying to the scout as they reach the quickly assembling troupe.  

“Aye Messere, den of ‘em.  Bout twenty, includin the young, just around this bend.” confirmed the scout in a thick brogue from the Hill Country folk near Starkhaven.  Harding dismisses the man with a soft thanks and sharp nod before turning to address the group.  

“Expecting some trouble are we?” asks Grandin, weaving his way to the front along with Urs and Roland.  

“You could say that again.” Harding replies with a quirk of an eyebrow.  “Phen spotted Bogfishers.  Apparently they are nesting just up ahead.”

“Bogfishers are wildlife, I assume?” asks Bram and Harding inclines her head in agreement.  

“Normally we try to avoid killing wildlife unnessarily,” she informs him  “but Bogfishers are aggressive.  They’ll go after anything, and with their thick hides and teeth-” (next to him Grandin shudders and says “So many teeth”) “-it won’t be safe for you to continue your mission until we clear them out.”  

“Usual methods then Messere?” Roland asks, calmly unstrapping the massive double-bladed battle axe from his back, and Harding nods.  

“Archers with me, we’ll try to keep them pinned down in their nest.  Everyone else follow Roland to sweep up any ‘Fishers that make it through.  Remember that their backs are nearly thick as armor, so aim for the belly or neck. Grandin, if you could-”

“Already on it, Boss.” interrupts Grandin, summoning a small ball of fire with a tight grin, before extinguishing it with a flourish. Bram notices that Harding, who had until now been uncharacteristically severe, breaks out in a grin that's bordering on bloodthirsty.

“Alright people, let’s have some fun.”

The approach to the Bogfishers den was hushed, and Bram spends most of the time reflexively clenching his, if he were being honest, clammy hands around the hilt of his longsword.  It’s hard for Bram to understand, finding these life-or-death type scenarios fun, though he can see from the excited gleam in nearly everyone’s eyes that he is mostly alone in this.  At heart, Bram knows he is a man of civil discourse and scientific discovery. If he had his choice, he would not have to learn the violent art of warfare in order to survive in the field.  But that was not the world that he lived in, and so he found himself as always slightly sweaty, his nerves a bundle of knots deep in his stomach.

At the bend, Harding signals for Grandin to begin the attack.  Bram swallows against a suddenly dry mouth, and leans around the bush that provides their cover.  The Bogfishers are far more massive than Bram had anticipated, and he counts what he assumes to be at least twelve adults in the stagnant water.  The rest of the young are in the dark cavernous alcove set in the rise beyond the shallow pool ahead of them.  

“Bogfisher; likes hiding in dark places and water. ‘A hulking beast whose great flapping paws slapped the stone. In countenance it was broad, its flaps of hide hanging loose across its bristled back.’ - Chapter Five, An Anatomie of Various Terrible Beasts” paraphrases Colette matter-of-factly, calm to all outward appearances.  Bram glances at her hands and sees her knuckles are white from where they grip the hilt of her sword.

“Thank you, Colette.” he says, knowing a supportive hand on the shoulder would be entirely unwelcome.  There is a small _fwumph_ and he glances over just in time to see Grandin pull from the Fade and form three large fireballs and launch them directly into the murky depths of the cavern.  The crackle of the fire grows into a terrible roar as something detonates when it hits the marshy ground of the cavern and Bram reflexively shields his face from the sudden heat.

“Huh.” comments Roland loquaciously.  

“Was that not supposed to happen?” asks Bram, he hears Grandin holler “OH SHIT! DID YOU SEE THAT? BOOM HA HA!” and before Roland can respond Harding calls for the archers and they are all swept up into fight.

The explosion had incinerated nearly all of the Bogfishers in the cavern and near its mouth, but a few still remained.  Panicked from the flames, they were easy pickings for Harding and the archers, and taken out in minutes.  Bram watches from the limited protection of the vegetation, as Harding launches arrow after arrow with ease, picking her targets methodically. She is fierce and vibrantly alive in that moment; beautiful in her every savage motion.  Somehow she glances over, her gleaming green eyes meet his and something in Bram’s chest clenches.  He inhales sharply, only letting his breath out shakily as she turns back to the remaining Bogfisher a moment later.  

It’s over quickly from that point and the rest of the melee fighters join Harding and the archers in the brackish waters of the shallow pool, now littered with carcasses.  The flames are still burning in the cavern, lighting up the small dark area.  Harding is nudging a smoldering carcass with a frown.  

“Any idea what caused such a delightful explosion?” asked Jace, shouldering his bow.  Hardings frown deepens as she surveys the surroundings.   

“Not a clue,” she responses with a sigh.  Her eye alight on a small dark clump and a strange expression crosses her face.  “Grandin, could you?” she waves at the pile.

"You want me to set shit on fire?” asks Grandin incredulously.

“Just humor me will you?” she responds impatiently.  Grandin rolls his eyes but sends a small flame shooting at the clump with a snap of his fingers.  His eyebrows nearly disappear into his forehead when the excrement erupts into fierce flames as soon as it is hit.  “It’s-”

“Flammable.” Harding interrupts with a small cutting smile, sharp as knives.  “Inquisition might have use for this.  Alright, Urs and Jace, stay being with your group and bring back what you can of the hides.  We’ll press on for another hour or so before heading back to camp.”  

Harding turns to look at Bram and her smile softens.  “You and your scholars handled yourselves well, Professor.” she comments cheekily.  Though he practically did nothing but stand there, he thinks ruefully and interjects “Please, call me Bram.” but her attention is distracted by a whispered aside from another scout.

“Let’s get you some artifacts Kenric.” she adds as she strides forward, the remaining troupe following automatically.  Bram can't stop the small sigh that escapes him and Roland gives him a empathic glance.

“She’s calling you Kenric at least.  That’s progress!”  the large Templar adds, his longer legs sweeping him past Bram as he trails after Harding.  

\-------

It’s not long at all after that that they find what they are looking for in a broad stretch of shoreline.  After the twentieth piece of shorn mail and broken arrow tip, Bram knew they had found a site of interest. Gathering their surface findings, they had back to the research outpost.  Bram spends nearly the whole march back mentally organizing the excavation activities.  

The next two weeks fly by in a haze of activity for Bram. Once the initial boundary of the excavation was set up, scholars were escorted to the site to begin the dig, with Bram overseeing it all with a careful eye.  The area itself was challenging, as the succession of distinct cultures; Avvar, Orlesian, and Tevinter caused dating issues, though Bram instituted more modern methods of recording both horizontal and vertical positions of the recovered artifacts.  These artifacts were then taken back to the research outpost to be cleaned, cataloged and compared to published collections.  

The post-excavation analysis was what occupied Bram’s waking (and not so waking hours) as the main expert in pre-Chantry era artifacts.  Despite the intricate and time-consuming study of these artifacts, Bram manages to establish a routine that allows him some measure of freedom from the tedium.  Mornings had him on the practice field, sparring with the quiet but earnest Roland when available.  At breakfast he usually is joined by the amusing Jace and Grandin, before heading back to his cabin to continue the research.  And at evening he crept out, stiff and aching from being hunched over a desk, and joins Harding at the dinner meal.  

They exchange stories of home after Bram catches her with a letter from her family.  She tells him of the teasing she received growing up, and he reveals his worries about his brother, who had left to join the Templars and never quite came back.  Not whole anyways.  Somehow it is as natural as breathing to discuss topics outside of their professional boundaries, night after night.  They passionately debate the current political upheaval and tentatively exchange their small hopes and fears for the future.  

It wasn’t a simple matter of attraction between them, he knows this much. The truth was, he realizes, that he _liked_ her.  Outside of the obvious attraction, he likes who she is and enjoys spending time with her.  Bram never thought he would think it, but that hour at dinner is something that he looks forward to at the start of every day. And yet despite this, he would hesitate to call it _intimacy_ , but this closeness, she kept her feelings towards him rather guarded.  He was never quite sure if his attentions would be welcomed or what to do.  Bram wasn’t inexperienced in these matters, at the University he had had several mutually satisfying affairs.  He had even been in love once, back at Starkhaven. But he had no idea how to court a woman like Harding.  Flowers and candlelit dinners didn’t seem quite appropriate.  So he courts her by asking her opinions on ancient battle strategies and texts, and by sharing pieces of himself at dinner, night after night.


	6. Lace Finally Falls

“Shit.”

It isn’t a strong enough word, but staring at a hole in the fabric of reality tends to render Laces creative swearing vocabulary dull.  Sickly green tendrils gathered lazily around the small rift in the veil, the unnatural light casting odd shadows across the glade.  Lace swallows down the fear that always hits her when she encounters these terrible things.   Urs is crouched down next to her, freckles harsh against her palid face and knuckles clenched white around her dagger hilts.  They all felt it, the aberrant nature of them, even Lace,  cut off from the Fade as she was.  She knows it natural, a rift means demons and demons mean death, but she hates how powerless it makes her feel.

“Well, at least its inactive.” Lace comments, her attempt at good cheer failing utterly as evidenced by the wry look Urs shoots her.  Behind the pair of veteran scouts are three very nervous trainees clutching knocked bows and wide eyes locked on the small rift in the center of the glade.  Lace rubs a hand wearily over her face with a sigh.  The glade where the rift resides is far enough away from the main camp that it could be avoided, but Lace knows it's only a matter of time before something crawls out of the Fade.  Best they can do is keep it inactive until the Inquisitor can arrive and close it permanently.  

“Alright, I want constant eyes on it, but remain at this range or further if possible.  We don’t want to set it off accidentally.  Three on three, Urs?”  Lace turns to the stern woman, using the common terminology in the forces for three shifts of three people.  Urs nods in agreement and gestures behind her at the trainees.

“You three will remain here until you are relieved” she tells them tersely, getting up from her crouch.  They snap to attention nearly simultaneously, gazes locked on the rift with fierce scowls.  Lace keeps her expression studiously blank until both her and Urs are past the trio before the pair exchange an amused glance at the trainees fervor.  Urs is a taciturn woman, even more so then Roland, but Lace has long since learned how to decode her minute expressions.  She sees the moment when the levity is wiped away.  

“There’ll be more.” Urs says while surveying the forest.  Lace sighs, hand automatically coming to rest on the hilt of the dagger at her hip.  

“There alway is.” Lace responds and Urs gives makes a small soft noise of agreement. They head back to the camp, humor forgotten as Lace contemplates the nexts steps needed. Nightingale would have to notified immediately of course and their more experienced forces rotated in, at least until the Inquisitor returned from northern Orlais to close this rift and any others that they find in the area.  

“ _So much for a relaxing mission..._ ” she thinks wryly as she takes her leave from Urs and heads to the communications outpost to grab the tools need to draft her urgent note to Skyhold.  The past two weeks had been quiet in comparison to the many missions she had been on.  It had been quite lovely in fact, a breather from the chaos of the world.

The efforts to advance quickly into the Basin has been hindered quite severely by the sheer cliffs and steep drops that populate the wide valley along with the aggressive wildlife and thick forest.  Even with the hastily constructed rope ladders, progress was still slower than normal.  Charter, who as usual just _appeared_ one night at the scout outpost, took one look at Laces reports, sent a dispatch to Skyhold and left as mysteriously as she arrived.  Not two days later however, a small deployment of soldiers lead by a Lieutenant Farrow, arrived at the base camp escorting the roofer Berinole, several engineers, and wagons of building supplies.   In the past two weeks, they had managed to build several “arboreal forts”, which helped increase the scouts maneuverability immensely. Jace had gone as far as calling them charming, though Lace had little understanding of why.  The treehouses were nothing but a death trap waiting to happen.  

She had stuck around longer than usual, telling herself that it was to keep an eye on the trainees, and had just ran out of excuses for putting off her duties. She was already getting reports of suspicious activity in the Hissing Wastes from her forward scouts, and had reassigned Cillian, Belinda, and Argent to the area for extra support until she managed to pull herself out of the Basin.  

Now though, with the rifts and the arrival of the Inquisitor unknown, Lace is unwilling to leave.  She reaches the communications outpost, grabs the waiting stack of correspondence along with a pen and a sheet of paper. Per standard protocol, her note to Skyhold will be converted to shorthand and translated into the cipher established by the Nightingale for her agents use for the next month.  It’s a headache and a half, but Lace enjoys the challenge of cryptography, often choosing to do the encryption herself instead of using the trained agents.  She snags a copy of Dissonant Verses, this month's key for the cipher, and heads to the camp fire.  Its still early enough that there might be some coffee and a bit to eat while she works on her message to Leliana.  

Juggling her writing tools and breakfast was no easy task but she manages to make it to a small nearly flat log near the fire, arranging all of it before her in preparation.  She takes a sip of her coffee, and her eyes catch on the tangled mass of copper hair as the Professor stumbles up to the fire, blinking blearily at the morning light.  Another late night spent at his desk, she sees with amusement.  The man was utterly absorbed by his work, spending late nights and early mornings bent over his desk, pouring over the artifacts and his books.

Once, on one of the few mornings like this one where they shared breakfast, she had come upon him with his nose buried in a large tome and porridge forgotten next to him.  His concentration was so intent that he hadn’t heard her hails until she was right behind him, and the resultant screech he made had her on the ground nearly in tears with laughter. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that she found his dedication, that she found _him_ , attractive.  He catches her eyes from firepit and Lace’s heart beats just a bit faster as a small warm smile crosses his face, all for her.  If she were being completely honest with herself, and really there was no point pretending anything otherwise, Kenric was one of the main reasons why she had been so loath to leave the Basin.  

It had begun friendly enough, but their evening meetings quickly developed into something more than two colleagues sharing stories.  Somehow, and she is still uncertain how it had happened, they began sharing their lives, their hopes, and their dreams.  She told him about her family, the wistful loving letters that her mother sent her as often as possible, and the confused silence from her father who couldn’t understand why she was bound and determined to “die young” as he had said.  She knew that Kenric was courting her, in his own way.  She wasn’t completely oblivious as he asked her opinion on ancient battle strategy for the eleventh time. But to consider becoming anything else then friends was a disaster waiting to happen. Lace’s only defense was the stubborn refusal to call him anything other than by his title or surname.  It was a line that she refused to cross, ignoring the confused looks of Kenrics and the small voice in her head that whispered what they had was not enough.

Lace shook herself from her thoughts just as Kenric reached the log and sat at her side, eyeing her stack of papers and book with amusement.

“Some light reading I presume?” he asks, setting aside the mug of coffee and picking up the tattered copy of Dissonant Verses.  

“Mm yes, that and roughly half a dozen reports from yesterday's patrols, news from Skyhold, and-” she pauses while thumbing through her pile of correspondence, “One letter from the University and one from Starkhaven addressed to a Lord Bram Kenric.”

“Ah excellent, I was expecting a response from Laurant!” he replies enthusiastically, taking the proffered letters from her.  She notices he had set aside the other letter, one presumably from home, with a slight frown before turning back to the note from this Laurant.  

They both settled into their respective business, Kenric sips his coffee as he pursues the letter with a smile.  Lace quickly scanned through her scouts reports; there had been large ruins seen along the river, another rift-she pauses to focus further down on the report-no make that two, and an Avvar fishing village sighted in the north along the shore.  Her frown lessens a tad as she reads that the scouts had made contact with the fisherfolk successfully.  Lace looks up from the reports to consider Kenric; he would probably want to go meet the Avvar as soon as he learned of their presence.  He had been very vocal about his desire to learn more about their culture as the when she had come upon him examining the Avvar artifacts the scholars continued.

“Och!” Kenric makes a strange sound from the back of his throat that is an amusing combination of frustration and bewilderment.  

“Everything alright at the University?” she asks.

“Mm?  Oh yes, Laurant got my request for additional supplies.  They should be arriving any day now.  He’s just complaining about a favor I asked of him.”  He pauses and shifts a bit at Lace’s curious look.  “Before I left I asked him to care for my Seheron Walking Fish, ” he explains “which he knows is not a fish, yet here he is ‘Also I fed that fish, but I am not talking to it for you.’” Kenric waves the letter at Lace exasperatedly.  “He’s a bloody expert on Herpetology! He should know that Kordillus is an amphibian not a fish.  I swear he does it on purpose just to-” he stops abruptly and flushes the reddest Lace had ever seen at her expression of incredulity.

“You named your fish after the first Emperor of Orlais?”

“Seheron. Walking. Fish.” he rejoins stiffly and Lace bursts out into merry laughter.  He sniffs once, like a stuffy fastidious nobleman, but Lace can see a grin hiding at the corners of his mouth as he returns to his correspondence .  In between her pursual of the reports (Farrow had established a auxiliary outpost upstream to keep an eye on supplies coming up the river, and Roland had found strange Tevinter ruins in the north) she watches Kenric, who had moved on to the letter from home.  Her gaze sharpens as she observes his expressions change to worry as he reads the letter for a second time.

“Trouble at home?” Lace can’t stop herself from asking and mentally kicks herself.  He had told her a bit about his family, described his parents as “loving but ultimately shallow people, concerned with appearances and tradition.” and went on to remark how ironic it was that they had gone on to produce four strong willed children. 

He sighs wearily, “My parents...They are seriously considering sending Aidan to the Chantry permanently. I suppose they think it would be better for him, help him heal…” he pauses and shakes his head with frustration.  “Aidan has already given enough to those people.  He just needs time.”

“Your brother, he was a templar in Starkhaven?” she asks and winces internally when he nodded.  The newly rebuilt Circle, despite the small number of mages, had suffered a violent revolt in the aftermath of the Kirkwall rebellion, and nearly burned down to the ground again.  She thinks of what Rylen had muttered, uncharacteristically drunk at The Singing Maiden, “You’d think it’d smell like burning meat, but it doesn't.  It doesn’t at all.”

“Perhap he just needs a change of location.  Sometimes…” she pauses, thinks of the one and only letter from her friend Henrik. “ _Are you ever even coming home?_ ” he had signed, but it there was too much there for her. Too many memories.  “Sometimes being too close to a place hurts in a way that won’t heal.  Like, picking at a scab, over and over.” she finishes and Kenric focuses on her face, eyes narrow, like he knows, and she wishes she hadn’t said anything.   _Maker, please don’t ask_...and nearly breathes out in relief when he sighs and looks away.

“Aye, you might be right.  Perhaps I should invite him to join me. We used to be close...” he trails off before setting down the letter and turning his attention back to Lace.  “Anything interesting?” he asks, waving at her piles of reports.  

“Actually, they made contact with a small Avvar fishing village. If you’d like, we can head over there today.”

“Oh yes, excellent!” he replies enthusiastically around a mouth full of porridge.  

“I figured as much.” she says with a grin for him. “Also, Roland mentions sightings of Tevinter Ruins in the north.  These could be that Nigel’s Point that your assistant Colette is quite insistent on finding and surveying. We could head over after we are done with the Avvar.”  

“She finally wore you down did she?  I thought you might have her chained to the camp last time she mentioned taking off and finding it on her own.” he said with a smirk.

“I still might.” Lace grumbled through Kenric’s good-natured chuckles. And as if the use of her name summoned her, Colette strides up to their breakfast spot, clearly excited about something.  

“Professor, they found something at the site!” she called out, gesturing at him to follow her back into the research camp.  

“Ah, duty calls!” Kenric says, trading a small grin with Lace, “I’ll met you in an hour or so with Colette?”  and Lace nods in affirmative and waves him off.  She turns back to her papers with a small sigh, takes a fresh sheet and finally starts writing her request to Skyhold.

_ “Rift encountered on the Basin floor.  Currently inactive and under continuous watch.  Two more spotted along the river.  Request Inquisitor’s presence as soon as possible.” _

\----------

The whole journey to the Avvar was marked by Kenric’s enthusiastic chatter about the finding this morning.  Much to the amusement of Lace and the fifteen scouts that had come along. Apparently his scholars had found a dagger that he had been able to identify as belonging to Inquisitor Ameridan.  

“Everything points to Ameridan fighting his way up the shore.  The torn clasp, this dagger!  We’re close, so incredibly close to finding the truth. Can you imagine?” he pauses to look at Lace but continues speaking before she even has a chance to respond. Jace and Grandin exchange amused glances at his scholarly fervor, and Lace finds herself glaring at them.  

“I wonder if the Avvar have any legends of the area that could be linked to Ameridan.  Unlikely but there’s always a chance…” he drifts off, obviously lost in his thoughts.  

With Kenric no longer providing entertainment, Jace returns to what Lace supposes is a flirtation with Colette, but she isn’t so sure he is succeeding judging by the mounting irritation of the elven woman.  

She looks at Grandin, carefully to avoid notice, catches the pained wistful look in his eyes as he watches Jace’s charming advances towards Kenric’s assistant.  Grandin had been in love with Jace since the start and Jace, who normally had all the emotional sensitivity of a Druffalo, had very carefully let him down.  It took awhile for their friendship to return to its normal irritating levels of cheer, and most assumed Grandin had moved on.  But he had just learned to hide it better.  

They reach the fishing village shortly after, Jace and Kenric approaching the Avvar while the rest of the group waits just outside.  Lace and Colette consult the map that Roland had marked up for them before they left base camp.  Colette has a surprisingly detailed memory of the area based on her studies of an explorer called Ser Nigel, and agrees with Lace’s theory that Roland’s ruins is in fact the Nigel’s Point that she has been eager to find.  

“We will follow the river from here, then head north at the fork.  We might have to scale some cliffs, but with the improvements our engineers have made, it shouldn’t be too bad.” Lace says, determined not to let her complete lack of excitement over climbing and cliffs show.  She glances at the map again, they would be close to Farrows encampment, perhaps she could take a small group there instead to check in.  Falker, a man with tracker with more woodsense then a Dalish, had taken a small team of scouts north and had yet to report back in.  It was unusual but not unheard of. Perhaps Farrow had news but no chance to forward it on to base camp.

She looks up to see Jace and Kenric heading back towards the group, and based on the slight frown on Kenrics face, Lace would bet their discussions did not turn out as fruitful as he’d hoped.  

“What’s the word Professor? Any leads?”  Grandin asks before Lace can get a word in.  

“Not much I’m afraid.  I was correct in my hypothesis that there is a legend about the area that seemed to have originated from around the time of Ameridan.  There’s an island, The Lady’s Rest…” he points out to the shore and she can just make out the shape in the distance. “But it’s a loose connection at best and the fishing folk are very close mouthed about it.  Local superstition I suppose.”  

“They also invited us to their Hold. Apparently their Thane, Svarah Sun-hair, has noticed our presence and extends an invitation.” adds Jace.

“I’ll have to relay that to our Ambassador.  I’m sure she’ll want us to hold off until she can determine the proper gifts for such an event.”  Lace says wryly.  “Well perhaps you’ll have better luck with Nigel’s Point.” she finishes and Kenric’s face brightens.  

“Well then, let’s be off!” he says excitedly, immediately follows his words with action and strides away from the group...in the wrong direction.

“Professor?”  she calls out, struggles not to smile and says with a gesture in the correct direction.  “It’s this way.”

“Ah...Right...Well then, lead the way!” he says with a small cough and flushes to the tips of his ears.  Lace falls in beside him, unable to stop the snickers from escaping her.  

“I am perhaps too enthusiastic for my own good.” Kenric comments with a sidelong glance and a small smile.  

“Well I happen to like it.” says Lace automatically, realizing too late that this is exactly the type flirtatious comment then she has been trying to avoid.

“Do you now?  I’ll keep that in mind.”

His voice deepens with the last statement, the burr of his accent more prominent.  It makes her think of other things that he would be enthusiastic about, what other things would make him lower his voice, and now it's her turn to flush.

“Yes well, I’d better go...keep an eye out.” she says with what she hopes is a nonchalant laugh but knows her nerves betray her as his smile takes on an edge that is both hot and very very male as she walks away.

They spend the rest of the way in relative quiet, all effort focused on conversing the terrain of the floor, which at times involves scrambling over the detritus of fallen trees and crumbling cliffs, and wading through murky swamp waters.  They follow the river as much as they can and are nearly at the fork when Grandin pauses, tense and frowning.  Lace immediately gestures for the group to stop, and makes her way to his side.

“Do you sense something?” she asks quietly, bending to re-adjust her boots in an effort to appear calm and unaware, using the motion to loosen her knife and slide her bow from her shoulder.  

“I don’t...possibly.  It’s-” but what he had been about to say was lost as a large group of savage Avvar descend upon them.  “Ambush!”

“Grandin! Barriers!” she yells, but is already in motion and she hears the small _pop_ as one is formed around her.  She draws three arrows, and releases with one smooth motion, heart pounding and blood racing.  She barely has time to register if they hit any targets, frantically evaluating the situation as she races to find some cover, any cover.  They had been hit in a bad spot, in lower ground without much cover, but they aren’t surrounded...yet.  The Avvar are screaming something, a name?  A giant Avvar steps out from the forest, ax raised to cut her down as he calls “ _For Hakkon_!”. She hears it clearly just as her arrow finds his throat, ending his battlecall with a bloody gurgle.   She grins viciously, snatching the arrow out of the dying man, and using it to take down another.  

Lace takes one second to check her people, Grandin is providing continuous coverage with barriers and Jace is protecting his flank.  Kenric and Colette are back to back, pale but determined and alive.  The rest of her group are handling themselves well, archers keeping back and warriors providing the necessary distraction to keep the archers clear.  With the archers, they’d make it out alive, she thinks as she sends three arrows into another Avvar warrior.

But the Avvar have archers too she discovers.  Archers whose arrows glow strangely, like the deepest purest ice, as they are launched at them.  It’s almost as if time has slowed, she sees an arrow fly at Jace and slip past his barrier like its just air to bury deep within Jace’s body.  He drops, and Grandin screams with fury; the mage’s body nearly ignites with the intensity of the flames he is pulling from the Fade.  She’s shooting arrows three at a time now but it’s not enough.  Her gaze is almost blocked by Avvar and scouts alike, and she takes a few steps back.  She sees Kenric, alive and fighting with a snarl.  She aims and takes out his opponent with a lucky headshot.  She sees Jace move, he’s still alive, and screams at Grandin.  If she can just get him to focus, but they are being pushed back and apart and Grandin is too locked in his rage. She takes one more step back, but her back foot encounters nothing but thin air, and suddenly she is falling.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry D: 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, [@captainceranna](http://captainceranna.tumblr.com/) ?


	7. Kenric Hears His Name

It all happens so fast, Bram thinks as he blocks a blow from an Avvar axe.  One minute Harding has halted the group to confer with Grandin and then next he is scrambling to draw his sword as a horde of Avvar descend upon them from what seems like all sides.  His moments are all automatic, a lifetime of training taking over as he parries, defends, and kills. Detached, Bram watches the Avvar fall to his knees, hands pressed to the wide gash Bram put there, frantically holding in his entrails.  Later, Bram knows that he will make himself sick thinking back on this moment, but now he lets his reflexes take over and runs the dying Avvar through.  

There’s simultaneously too little time and too much time to think, as he moves to protect Colette’s flank. He registers that Harding and the archers have fallen back, that Jace has switched to his broadsword and Grandin is calling fire and lightning down on the Avvar at Jace's side.  He risks a glance at Colette, sees her tiring quickly under the onslaught of the bigger and stronger opponent.  He curses internally, he had warned Colette that the sword would be a tough weapon for her to utilize for any duration regardless of training, but Colette had just given him this level look until he relented… _I will strangle her if she dies because she’s too stubborn to train with an appropriate sized weapon,_ Bram thinks as he quickly narrows the distance. He lashes out with his leg and connects brutally with the back of the mountain woman’s knee, distracting her long enough for Colette to lunge forward and drive her sword in and up, piercing the soft unprotected belly of the Avvar.  

Bram moves in front of Colette, sees two more Avvar, armed with heavy swords, charge at them.  He takes the brunt of the attacks, allowing Colette to slip past Bram’s guard to deliver a series of quick jabs at the Avvar’s unprotected flank.  They take both down in time to see the enemy archers launch what looks like bolts of ice.   _Impossible_ , Bram thinks, _ice would shatter at the force of leaving the bow, without the aid of magic_.  But magic it must be, as he watches in paralyzed horror as one of the projectiles slip through Grandin’s barrier and pierce Jace’s body.   

After Jace goes down, Bram and Colette move in sync towards Harding and her archers, shifting closer instinctively against the onslaught of the Avvar.  Bram can’t see Grandin any more, but can _hear_ him, the roar of flames and crack of steady lightening. Bram can see that the mage’s startling fury is starting to break the Avvar’s spirit.  He hears a startled yelp behind him and turns just in time to see Harding disappear over the edge of the rise.

Bram doesn’t think. He doesn’t even pause. He just moves.  He bolts past the archers, eyes on the space where Harding’s body had occupied just seconds before.  He pauses briefly at the edge, eyes narrow and heart pounding, scanning the lower terrain.  It’s a short but steep drop to the quick flowing waters of the river.   _There!_ He spots the glint of metal shockingly far downstream and leaps, plunging into the ankle deep ice cold water. It’s up to his shins near the bank as he runs along it, chasing the rapidly disappearing Harding, but he sees it is deep near the center.  He’d be up to his chest if he had to guess. For someone of Harding’s stature...she’d be over her head and struggling against the weight of her armor and the current.  

The sounds of the battle are starting the fade behind him when he finally reaches Harding, sees her fighting towards shallower water, and strides in deeper.  “Harding!” he yells, stretching out to try to grab her and pull her to shore.  She turns in the water, eyes wide and teeth clenched, and attempts to alter her trajectory towards him.  Bram reaches out further, almost loses his footing, and barely snags the strap of her leather pauldrons. Frantically he grabs a hold of her outreached arm with the other hand and pulls her with him as his makes his way back to shore.  “Hold on!” he pants, not pausing to look behind him, but hears a wet amused noise from her.  

It doesn’t take long to exit the river, but it’s a fight the whole way as Bram struggles against the pull of the river and the extra weight of Harding. He drags her up the bank and finally allows himself to rest, nearly wheezing as he bends over and rests his arms on his knees.  Harding coughs, spitting out brackish water, before attempting to rise up to her feet.

“Are you alright?” he gasps as she drops abruptly to the ground with a pained grunt.   She waves him off,  “I’m fine.  Need to get back to-” she pauses at the sounds of a few large somethings making its way through the woods.   They are both silent for moment, listening as the noise gets steadily closer to them.  Bram still has his longsword, a lifetime of training had him instinctually sheathe his weapon before plunging over the cliff, bolting after Harding as he had.  

“We need to move.” whispers Harding harshly, breaking his concentration on the forest line. He glances over at Harding, sees her automatically check the quiver at her side.

“Do you-” he starts to ask and stops at her grimace.

“Not enough. The river…” she says softly, and he can see that she only has a few arrows that managed to remain despite the turbulent water. She stands up, and he decides to leave her wince unremarked upon.  “Quietly!” she hisses at him as he easily catches up to her limping gait.  

“What is the plan?” he murmurs and unsheathes his sword as quietly as possible and clenching his cold hands around the hilt. Bram can still hear their attackers, terrifyingly close through the brush, and the pit in his stomach that he had been able to ignore through rush of tearing after Harding comes back in full force.  

“We need to get to higher ground.  There’s a ruin..those Tevinter Aqueducts, just north from here.”  

North. In the wrong direction of the main camp.  And away from the others currently fighting for survival.  Grandin, Urs, and Colette among them.   _Jace_.  “But the others...Jace, he-” he objects but Harding cuts him off quickly.

“He’s alive.” she says fiercely.  “I saw him breathing.  We need to go.  Now.”

He nearly has his mouth open to protest again, to demand that they turn back, when from behind there is a loud snap and the howls of the Avvar echo out into the clearing. Getting closer to them, Bram thinks with a sickening jolt.

“Can you run?” he asks, not bothering to lower his voice.

“Do I have a choice?” she’s asks dryly and breaks out into a painful limping jog.   

There are no further words between them as they head north along the river until they reach the Tevinter ruins.  

Harding’s face is one long grimace of pain, breath hissing out of her clenched teeth at every step.  Bram keeps his eyes on the tree line, each flash of fur from the armor of the Avvar hunting them spurs him to push himself and Harding faster.  He spots at least four of the warriors with their strange weapons pacing them.  They reach the ancient stone that spans the river, and Harding scrambles up the sloping crumbling edge of a fallen wall.  

Another time Bram would have enthused over the history of the area, studied the architecture, and pondered the mystery of the remaining aqueducts in the area.  Perhaps even put a theory or two in front of the University board for consideration.  Now Bram just finds himself fiercely grateful that a portion of it has succumbed enough to the ravages of time to allow Harding an easy scramble to the top.  He lingers near the bottom, eyes narrow and focused outward, until she catches his attention.

“Kenric.” she says.  Bram looks up and everything goes quiet and reverent as he meets her eyes, blazing green in the filtered light.  “Keep them distracted and off my back.  I only have four arrows left.  I’ll be using them wisely.” she directs as she knocks an arrow with a smooth practiced motion.  Bram turns to stride back to the center, closer to the encroaching Avvar. He could die here, _she_ could...He nearly turns back to her.  There was so many things he wanted to say to her, so many things he wanted to do,  and then the Avvar step out of cover of the forest and there is no time left regardless.  

They are lucky, Bram notes.  Only six of the Avvar have followed them from the ambush area, and all focus on him.  Two women and one man move to flank him, while the rest approach head on.  Bram braces himself, eyeing the giant of a man and the even larger maul that he wields with little evidence of its weight, and the first of Harding's arrows catches one of the Avvar flanking him in the throat.   _One down._ Taking advantage of their distraction, Bram bursts into action, lunging sideways and slamming his shoulder into the closest Avvar.  As the woman stumbles, he drives his sword through her, the blade jarring on bone as it rips through her body. From behind him he hears a whistle and thunk, followed shortly by the gurgle of a dying man.   _Three down._  

Bram pivots quickly to the remaining warriors and uses the momentum to jerk his sword out.  Something hot and wet sprays across his face. Bram can smell nothing but copper, sharp and metallic. The giant maul-wielding Avvar is on his knees, clutching the arrow buried in his stomach.  Distracted, Bram nearly gets a mace to his face, instincts just barely saving him as he dodges back at slightest shift in the air. He slams his elbow into the juncture of the last Avvar’s arm, taking expert advantage of the man’s over-extension, and follows through with knee to the Avvar’s stomach.  As he falls forward, winded and gasping, Bram takes a hold of his longsword with both hands and drives through the Avvar’s neck.   _Five down._  He looks up to the dying giant, see’s his pained groans cut off by Harding’s arrow, straight through the throat.

He lets a small breath escape him, considers the blood soaked glade, and almost  _almost_ sheaths his blade. There is something lingering in the back of his mind, a whisper of caution that sounds like the word five. _Five down._  Five Avvar dead and there were six at the start.  

Bram whips around, eyes caught on the fierce grin on the Harding's face as she looks him and the final sixth Avvar behind her, dagger raised.

“Harding!” he screams out, some how louder than the voice in his head that is chanting _‘Too late. It’s too late’_.  He grabs the knife at his belt and throws, one smooth motion at odds with the frantic chaos of his mind, and instantly regrets it the moment the blade leaves his hands.  It had been years since he practiced with a well balanced throwing knife, much less a heavy hilted straight edge that he carries for convenience.  The desperately thrown knife has a greater chance of hitting her or just plain missing then hitting the Avvar.  And yet it’s as if the Maker is on their side as somehow the blade arcs up, past Harding, to bury itself into the chest of her attacker.  The body of the Avvar falls back and lands with a sickening crunch on the floor below.  

Bram remembers to breathe and it stutters over a laugh as he exhales finally.   He can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face and he stares up at the bemused Harding.  

“Did ye see that?” he calls to her enthusiastically, slipping into the thicker accent of his childhood in his excitement.  “I hit him!  With my knife. And it’s been years I’ve even tried!”

“You WHAT!?”

The look of sheer horror on Harding’s face...He laughs long and loudly, mainly because there is freedom to do so now, as he strides over to the base of the fallen wall.  

“Oh don’t fash woman.  You lived didn’t you?”  he says with what he hopes is his most charming grin.  She rolls her eyes and scrambles down the ruin, taking his proffered arm near the bottom.  A surprised grunt escapes him as she rests her full weight on him.

“Problem Professor?” she asks coyly.

“You...You are shockingly heavy for someone of your-” he stops himself, sadly too late to keep the colossal metaphorical foot from inserting itself into his mouth.  

“Why Kenric, did you just call me fat?” she says seriously but her eyes are glittering with suppressed humor and he sputters “I-you...Andraste's Dimples, you know what I meant!” in response and she giggles gleefully.  

“I’m a dwarf Kenric, we’re naturally denser.” she states but her giggles are cut off by a short gasp of pain as she takes her first step.  Bram catches her quickly as she weaves to keep her balance and keeps his arm around her shoulders.  The levity, the exuberance of life, that had fill the space between them fades, replaced by the quiet of exhaustion.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asks softly and she grimaces.

 

“It’ll be difficult.  What ever battle frenzy kept me going before is gone now. Everything... Well to be honest, everything just hurts.” she replies and tests her ankle one final time with a wince.  She surveys the glade, gripping his arm for support.  

“I won’t make it back to camp, not before nightfall anyways.  Kenric, can you-” she pauses to prop herself against the wall. “We need the arrows.” she finishes and tips her head forward.  Bram turns and all he sees is blood and bodies, shot through with arrows. _Oh._

“I’m sorry...”  she says softly, reaches forward to  touch the tips of his gloves with her fingers. Bram curls his fingers around hers and squeezes once before he lets go and moves forward.

He works his way through the remains as fast as possible, pushing down the lump in his throat, has to pretend that he is somewhere else.  An excavation site perhaps, and each body is just an interesting ruin with an artifact that he has to recover.  It works for awhile.  When an arrow gets caught on the vertebrae of an Avvars neck, he places a hand on the body to jerk it out, snaps the arrowhead off with intent focus.  He looks at his hand, the body still warm below it, the empty eyes of the dead Avvar, and abruptly turns.  Falls to his knees and gags.  Gets up just as fast, wipes at his mouth once before heading back to Harding's side.  He drops the four gore covered arrows into her lap and she thanks him with a soft smile before turning to examine them.

“Are they...usable?” he asks as she shifts through the arrows with a critical eye.

“Hmm? Oh, most of the tips will have to go but the fletching is still good.  I can fix it later when we rest.  Balance will be off a bit, but it’ll have to do.” she says as she leverages herself back to standing, placing the arrows back into the quiver at her side.  

“Shall we head back?” he asks, one final time, as he braces his arm around her shoulders.  It’s an awkward position, due to the vast differences in stature between himself and Harding.  She frowns, considers, and then shakes her head.

“No, there could be more Avvar.  We need to find a safe spot for the night first, then…” she pauses, and Bram can practically see the wheels turning in her head.  “ We continue north, to Stone-Bear Hold.”

“More Avvar?”  Bram asks in startlement. It was obvious to him that the Avvar that attacked and those they had met before had to be from two different clans ( _tribes?_  Bram makes a note determine proper terminology later) based on the weapons and painted markings, but there is always the possibility of treachery.  

“It’s the closest place I can think of that will have what we need.  We can barter for more weapons, food, transport...healing.  Besides, they did invite us after all.”  she responds.

“Fair enough.  Lead the way.” he says and they take the first few painful steps forward.  Along the way Harding looks up speculatively, her eyes glinting, and lets out a rueful sigh.  

“I spend a few minutes in the river and lose nearly all my arrows.  You spend a few minutes and still can’t lose that obnoxious Orlesian hat. How unfair.” she remarks and Bram unconsciously raises his hand to his head. He had forgotten he was even wearing the uncomfortable bloody thing. He does his best impression of a scowl and is treated to a small giggle.

Their progress north through the Basin floor is slow, and Bram can see the wisdom of Harding's plan, as they struggle against the surroundings, the cold, and Harding’s injury. They manage to push on until dusk, when Harding calls a halt to their limping march to find a likely place to shelter for the night.  Bram glances up at the tall trees surrounding them, some of which had branches low enough to make climbing possible, even with Harding's injury.  

He gestures to the trees beside them.  “What about-”

“No.” she cuts in abruptly and he is surprised by the quickly hidden look of panic in her eyes.  

“Are you...Are you scared of heights?” he asks incredulously.

“What? No. Why would you-” she stutters to a stop and exhales harshly through her nose.  “It’s a perfectly natural fear.”

“Well, I find myself relieved, ” Bram says, glancing down at her with a grin, charmed that such an uncommonly ferocious woman has such a common fear.  “I was starting to worry that you were incapable of fear.”

“Oh ha ha.” snarks Harding.  They settle down quickly to the business of finding an appropriate shelter. Harding finally spots a hollow hidden by dense bush that would serve as cover for the night.  As he sets her down, she instructs him to find any fallen foliage to line the hollow as a method of keeping as much heat in as possible. When Bram comes back, arms loaded with as many soft-leafed branches as possible, Harding has emptied the contents of her kit on the ground before her and is evaluating it all with a critical eye.

She sighs wistfully as she packs away the flint and tinder.  “Can’t risk a fire.” she states simply and Bram has to swallow his disappointment.  “But at least we have food and water!” she continues, shaking a half filled water pouch at him.  They both pause to remove their armor, keeping as much layers on as possible despite dampness to ward off the chill.   Even wet, the wool of their garments would help keep heat in.  Bram sets his helm down with an audible sigh of relief. He has to help Harding remove her boot, apologizing as she hisses in pain as it finally slips off.  They both frown at the swollen ankle, visible even through the layers of her remaining clothes.  She waves him off to finish their impromptu shelter and uses her chest piece to prop her leg up.  

Under Harding’s watchful eye, Bram lines the small space with the fallen foliage, weaves it until it nearly encloses them.  As he works, Harding strips the arrows of their broken heads, and uses her knife to carve the wood into deadly points. It’s nearly completely dark when he finally sits down, and they split Harding's store of rations between them.  He glances down at her leg, still swollen and painful looking despite the rest.  Between guiding his efforts with the shelter and fixing the arrows, she had wrapped the injured ankle quite tightly, using the roll of bandage she kept for emergencies such as this.  

“Is it broken?”  he asks and can’t hid the relief when she shakes her head.  

“A sprain I think.” she responds and wiggles her toes in emphasis.  They share a relieved smile and Bram settles down closer to her.  The frantic continuous motion of earlier had kept them warm, but the cold has crept in.  Bram curls his arms around himself, resigned to a night spent in cold uncomfortable awareness.  He glances consideringly over at Harding, who is hiding faint tremors by breathing into her cupped hands.  She pauses in her efforts and meets his gaze.

“If you suggest that we hold each other for warmth I shall punch you.”

It surprises a bark of laughter from Bram, who is still chuckling as they stretched out on the hard earth. He shifts around, finally finds a semi-comfortable spot when the cold fully settles in, and he huddles inwards.  He tries to keep his shivers from disturbing Harding but obviously fails when he hears her sigh.  Bram opens his mouth to apologize but stills as her feels the length of her body next to his and an muscular arm slips around his waist.  

“It’s just...really cold.” mutters Harding and Bram covers his chuckle with a cough as he shifts to settle her against his side, tucks his arm underneath her neck.

He starts to drift off and a sudden errant thought causes Bram to grin.  “You know, some cultures would consider me saving your life, laying weapons at your feet, and sleeping with you as the last step in a courtship rite.  The least you could do is call me by my first name.” he says with a sidelong glance.  

Harding issues a particularly unlady-like snort and Bram can practically picture her rolling her eyes.  He chuckles and tucks his arm more firmly around her, murmurs “Fair enough, Lady Harding.” and closes his eyes to at least make the attempt at sleep on the hard floor.  There is a moment of silence and Bram feels her body tense slightly and she shifts against him.

“Lace.” she says suddenly and continues at his puzzled noise.  “My name...It’s Lace.”  

Bram blinks.  _Lace._  Something delicate and fragile and time consuming to create. Things that have little in common with the woman at his side.  And yet…

“It suits you.” he murmurs and coughs to cover his gasp of surprise as she shoves an elbow into his side.

“My mother would be thrilled to hear that.” she responds dryly and Bram remembers her saying that her mother was a seamstress. They both lapse into quiet as exhaustion settles deep into their bones.  Brams thoughts spin, shifting from subject to subject but always returning back to the events of the afternoon.  The smell of sweat and blood. Harding must have felt his body tense as he spirals deeper. She lays a gentle hand tentatively on his chest and Bram takes a clarifying breath.

“You should try to sleep...Bram.” she says softly and Bram lets out a long controlled breath, his heart suddenly pounding.  She settles herself closer and he closes his eyes, pushes out all gruesome memories and errant thoughts, focuses on the warmth of the woman next to him.  Feels her breath as she exhales slowly, already relaxing into sleep. Somehow, despite everything, he manages to drift off and joins her in the Void of sleep.

Unsurprisingly, despite the initial ease of finding slumber, there isn’t much sleep to be had.  The ground underneath is hard and uneven, their layers of clothes still damp and cold, and both of them smell quite strongly of marsh.  At the first hint of light, they rise despite their exhaustion.  Harding shares the last of her water and rations before checking her ankle binding.  As they leave their resting place, Harding wraps an arm around his waist and uses her bow as a prop, and Bram rests his hand on her shoulder without comment.   They make their hobbling progress northwards until the sun was near its zenith.  And that’s when they find the Avvar.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. SHE FINALLY SAID HIS NAME!! Also fair warning, next chapter is has...fluff. So much fluff.


End file.
